


A Hundred Thousand Ways to Say the Name John

by Jberry



Series: Baetica [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cruise Ships, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Homophobic Language, It's For a Case, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Season/Series 03, Story: The Five Orange Pips, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3508130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/pseuds/Jberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and Sherlock Holmes must solve a case on a cruise ship. To get close to the crew and passengers, they must get married for the case on the <i>Baetica</i>. However, their relationship hits rocky seas both due to the case and internal conflicts. It is most rewarding to read this story as part of the <i>Baetica</i> series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hundred Thousand Ways to Say the Name John

"John!"

Sherlock had a hundred thousand ways to say the name _John_. 

He could draw it out, in a petulant fashion, carrying behind it a request, the entire sentence on long string, without a breath or pause . The request attached was usually something the man could do himself. 'Jaaawwwnnnn will you bring me my laptop, my leg is asleep.' Or 'Jaaawwwnnnn I'm sick bring me a pillow.' Or 'Jaaawwwnnnn will you please rub my back.'

On an especially sleep deprived day at the clinic, Dr. John Watson had signed his name _Jawn_ , as that is how he'd taken to picture his name. Sarah had laughed so hard she had changed his name plate to read 'Jawn Watson.' 

She'd even glued it down so he couldn't remove it. 

There were rare ways that Sherlock would say John's name. Ways that would cause John's breath to stutter in his chest, or his heart to beat faster. Ways that would cause him to turn his head, to make tea suddenly, to feel the need to run to Tesco's. There were other ways that made him feel like a child, made him feel expendable, that caused the back of his neck to itch and his palms to sweat as he willed his fists to unclench. 

When John had nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat, sending his blankets flying across the room, Sherlock would rub John's back and shoulders. He would simply say his name, over and over, "John," punching the 'J' sound to keep him from falling into the cavern of panic in between being asleep and being awake. John couldn't help his toes curling and flexing as he felt Sherlock's fingers upon his spine, his name said like a prayer on Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock said John's name tenderly, as a mother, to remind him that he was there when John was lost in his own thoughts. When John returned from a failed date, the loss of a patient, or an especially grating fight with Harry, Sherlock made tea. He would make his tea, exactly how he liked it, and hand it to John by nudging the cup to his fingers. This gesture, all while saying _John_ softly, and in a low register. 

When Sherlock was excited, happy, or wanted John's attention, he would say his name with a bright tone. Jumpy. Emphatically. John's heart would race and the adrenaline would begin flowing. He knew that tone, that inflection so well he would hear it even when Sherlock was out of the flat. At first, Sherlock would say "John, a case!" But now , with their years of living together, he would simply say his name. 

Today, Sherlock said only John's name. But the tone, the inflection, was altogether different. John was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast, when he heard Sherlock call his name from the living room. Sherlock had been typing on his laptop, in fits and starts, when he'd finally given up. He'd been pacing the living room, took down a book, put it back. 

John feared one of Sherlock's epic sulks were coming on. 

"John!" 

"Yes, Sherlock?" He turned slightly, scrambling the eggs and ham. He put two more pieces of toast in. He was bracing himself. Anything, anything at all could be coming out of Sherlock's mouth. John only regretted not drinking some coffee already. 

"John, there is a serious case-"

"-Alright."

"And I will require a lot of you. Quite a lot."

John busied himself with the toast, turning the heat off the pan. It could be costumes. It could be a stakeout. It could be flying to Belize. Anything, anything at all. John was used to this, the never ending surprise. Over the past few months, he'd come to admit to himself that he loved it. He'd let the dates with women go to the wayside, preferring his time with Sherlock, as celibate as it was, than anytime with anyone else. He'd do anything for him. 

The first time he didn't correct someone that they weren't a couple, he sat in his room that evening, thinking, staring at the wall. Two days after that, he was propositioned by a pretty blonde at Tesco's. He declined because he hadn't seen much of Sherlock the past few days and he _missed him_. The next week, they were chasing after a criminal, Sherlock skidding into some trash and knocking himself out cold. John yelled, browbeat, and forced his way into the ambulance, the hospital, the MRI room. He used his Captain Watson voice and stood anyone down that tried to keep him from Sherlock. 

That night, he realized that he not only loved the work they did together, but he was _in love_. Had been for longer than he cared to admit. And, being British, and male, he couldn't come out and say it. 

"John, are you listening?" Sherlock was now right behind John, arms crossed. 

"Hmm?" John raised his eyebrow, continuing to serve up breakfast. He made himself coffee, trying to guess what Sherlock was up to. It had been a while since they'd had a proper case.

"It will involve you taking a week, maybe two, off work," Sherlock was crowding closer, "You'll be going with me, on a case," John huffed at this, "It's on a cruise. A cruise from Southampton to Norway."

"I don't see how that involves asking _a lot_ of me, Sherlock. Sounds rather like you're taking me on vacation."

Sherlock went into rapid fire _deduction speak_ as John had taken to calling it, "Well, there is an issue with the owner of the ship we'll be on. This cruise ship, the Baetica, is owned Elias Openshaw. To commemorate gay marriage becoming legal in the UK, he wants to hold a marriage ceremony between members of the same sex. He's assumed, like most of England that we're a couple," At this, Sherlock slows down, more carefully choosing words, "He would like to officiate our marriage," Sherlock is so close now, John has a hard time getting the food on the plates and on the table. John looks at his face, and Sherlock is biting his lip. 

"Okay," John says, careful to smile at Sherlock, "So, you're asking me to marry you?"

Sherlock blinked, and John remembers the time he asked Sherlock to be best man. He's a little quicker to recover this time, but not by much. 

"Yes. I suppose I am. For a case, I mean."

John asks for clarification in small bites, concerned his thundering heart and flushed neck has finally betrayed him, "So, we need to get married, for a case, but what is the case?"

Sherlock coughed, "The son, Elias, is receiving threatening emails, letters, calls. The person or persons identify themselves as 'WBC.' The police force hasn’t taken it seriously, as the person is sending photos of….well," At this Sherlock blushes, "Porn photos and cutouts from magazines with rather upsetting messages."

"Why wouldn't the police take that seriously?" John sits down to eat, gesturing to Sherlock. Sherlock keeps standing, "I'm not talking about this unless you eat." John was tempted to add _dear_ or _love_ to the end of the sentence, but he stops himself. The idea of marrying Sherlock, even just for a case, has propelled his brain forward in joyful hope. 

He's never thought of himself as a coward, but with Sherlock he has been. Has been for years. Over the past few months he's circled around what he's wanted to do, what he longs to say. He backtracks, he stops and starts, he reaches out to touch but moves his hand back. He wants, desires, aches, pines, but he does it alone. He would rather keep him close, as something less than what he wants, than lose him all together. Losing him again, or choosing anyone else over him again, would kill him. 

"John," Sherlock sounds surprised, "So you're not upset at this? I just never-"

John looks at him and shrugs, "Like you said, everyone thinks we're a couple anyway. I've stopped correcting people. I don't date anymore, so it's not a big deal," John winces at his choice of words. He's trying to convey that he won't date anyone _but Sherlock,_ but he trudges ahead, "So, we'll be on the ship, then, for a while? To try and catch who is sending the threatening letters or emails?"

Sherlock stares at his plate as he talks, "It will, it's close quarters on a ship. My theory is it might be someone on the ship, as the letters aren't mailed, but left to be found in strange places on the boat. Someone is breaking in, which is highly unlikely, or there is an inside person. If we're there for our, um, marriage and honeymoon, and not just there as ourselves, the crew and guests may be more willing to open up to us."

John's mind wanders as Sherlock discusses the case, and his methodology for ferreting out the truth. He's thinking about being on a ship, with Sherlock, in a small room for at least a week. John finds just the idea of being an imaginary couple with Sherlock holds a lot of appeal, no matter how much he knows it will hurt for them to return back to what they have now. It will just be the two of them, and the work. 

"John," Sherlock says his name tenderly this time, breaking him out of his wandering thoughts, "Mycroft can help us get married and annul us quickly. But you don't have to do this, if it makes you uncomfortable."

John's mouth was running in line with his heart, and not his brain. He blurted out the next sentence before he could edit it in his mind, "What if I don't want it annulled? How many times have we had to fight hospital staff to see one another? I don't want to be kept from you if something happens. And we're relatively famous. I am not dating anyone else, nor will I be."

Instead of saying anything else, or looking at Sherlock, John ate. His eyes were on his plate, the only sound his fork scraping the ceramic. He waited for a response from Sherlock. He could dismiss the idea as silly. He could scrap everything. But he would know, by the look on John's face, by the way he was willing to take this plan even further from what Sherlock was thinking, that he wanted, or that he was willing. 

Rather than speaking, Sherlock fled the table. John heard Sherlock's door snap shut. John waited, continuing to eat, hoping Sherlock would decide to come back out when he cooled down. When he was finished with breakfast, he listened at Sherlock's door. He went to the front window and watched the traffic. He went back into the kitchen, wrapped Sherlock's food, drank the rest of his coffee, and put on a light jacket as he grabbed his keys and wallet. Before leaving, he knocked on Sherlock's door. He held his ear to the door, but he didn't hear a sound. 

"Sherlock, I'm going out for a bit. Do you need anything?"

Silence. 

"Sherlock, are you ok? Please? I'm going to open the door and come in."

John turned the knob. It was unlocked. Sherlock was in his bed, still in his nightgown and dressing gown, typing furiously on his laptop. He glared at John, turning his back to him. 

"You're _mad_ at me?" John was taken aback. This was one response he hadn't thought of. Anger. Sherlock was fuming mad. His shoulders were up around his ears, and he was turning away from John as much as he could. 

John, who had been a coward for so long, felt something stir in the pit of his stomach. It was the same adrenaline that kicked in when he knew he was about to do something stupid, "Sherlock, I am an idiot. Please, so we're clear, tell me why you're angry with me."

No answer. Sherlock moved to get off the bed. John blocked the door, "Sherlock, I am not going to hurt you, or keep you blocked in, but you need to tell me, why are you angry with me?"

"Get. Out."

John had never seen Sherlock like this. Even when he'd discussed Moriarty, or Magnussen, there was not such venom in his voice. He was shaking, his laptop nearly trembling right out of his hands. 

"Sherlock, please."

"Stop. You've had your fun, mocking me, mocking my-" He cut himself off, breathing in sharply. His eyes were a shade of ice green he'd never seen before, "You've had your game now, John, now leave me be."

John had never heard his name said that way. He could live never hearing it said that way again. Sherlock's tone was angry, it was biting, it was vicious. It was injured. It was hurt. 

John put his hands up in surrender, "I don't know what you think I was doing Sherlock, but you know I am a terrible liar. Whatever you think I am playing at, I think you're mistaken. I am not playing at anything."

Sherlock threw his laptop on the bed and put his hands on his hips. His threadbare T-shirt stretched over his chest and stomach, and John licked his lips out of habit. Sherlock broke eye contact, and he shook his head as he looked at the bedroom floor, "Is this how you proposed to Mary? Is this how you divorced her? Just a matter of fact discussion over breakfast?"

John had hardly any recollection of Mary, hardly any feeling but regret. John remembered Sherlock teaching him to waltz in the living room, and his inability to take his eyes off of Sherlock's face as they worked on the steps. He didn't take pledges lightly, so he would see the marriage proposal through to the end. He'd cried, countless nights, just wishing Sherlock could have come back _just a few days sooner_. Why not _just a few days sooner._ He'd even had panic attacks and nightmares during the course of his engagement and marriage, nightmares that were soothed away when he'd moved back in with Sherlock after her death. 

He'd wondered later if he'd subconsciously known what Mary really was. 

Now, Sherlock brought Mary up because he was hurt, attempting to get a reaction from John. A visceral, angry, nasty reaction. He was desperate for a fight.

John Watson would not oblige.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm sorry about everything to do with her, that was one of the greatest regrets of my life, truly," Sherlock didn't raise his eyes, but he shifted his weight from one foot to another. "I am not playing with you. You told me you need us to marry for a case, then annul it. I simply replied I am amenable to staying married."

Sherlock still wouldn't make eye contact. 

John moved closer, Sherlock moved back a half step, "Sherlock, you know speaking about this is hard for me. Think about what I've said. Make a deduction. What you do with it is your choice. If I've made you angry, or uncomfortable, tell me."

John stared at Sherlock, praying that he would say something. That he would respond in some way. He continued to stare at the floor, his lips pursed together, breathing in sharply through his nose. John opened his mouth to plead again, to say something else, but he was cut off. 

"John, please leave." 

John nodded. Sherlock wouldn't hear anything else. He turned and left the flat, shutting the door gently. His chest ached. A door opened, and he'd gone for it, and Sherlock had rejected him. Been angry with him. Fumed at him. Dismissed him. John was shaking so much he put his hands in his pockets to try and stop it. 

John left the flat and kept walking. He thought he would just be gone for a half an hour or so, but every time he thought of returning, tears pricked at his eyes and his hands shook again. He'd been a fool. Again.

He couldn't will himself to return to Baker Street. He doubled back against other streets, walked through a park, drank coffee as he sant on a bench. John finally decided on a gesture, an apology, for whatever he had done that had upset Sherlock. Because he was British, and male, and his long distant ancestors were poets and playwrights and professional romantics, he decided he would woo Sherlock Holmes. 

He backtracked his way towards the flat. When he was a few blocks away, he stopped by his favorite flower shop and created a custom bouquet of red roses surrounded with myrtle and purple violets. While paying, he saw a familiar black car through the shop window. He rolled his eyes, but he was grateful he didn't have to carry a large vase of water and flowers all the way back home. When he crawled in, he was shocked to see Sherlock sitting in the back.

Before John had sat down Sherlock began an interrogation. And because Sherlock was British, and male, and even more because he was _Sherlock,_ he didn't come out and tell John what had upset him so much.

"Where have you been? I had to call Mycroft to check the CCTV to find out what direction you'd gone in, you've been gone for hours. I was worried that you'd somehow been kidnapped or hurt. You weren't answering your phone. I thought you'd left-"

"Sherlock, stop, _you_ told me to leave. You didn't want to talk to me-"

"Why didn't you at least answer your texts? Or tell me where you were going? You just left. You didn't even tell me you were leaving, you just walked out-"

"Sherlock, stop!" Sherlock blinked at John, finally quiet so he could speak, "Sherlock, I honestly wasn't sure where I was going, and I lost track of time. I knew I wanted to get you something, to buy you something, to apologize for whatever it is I did but you won't tell me. It took me a while to decide on what. I got you these flowers."

John handed the flowers to Sherlock, who held them out at arms length. 

"They won't bite, Sherlock, they smell nice." 

Sherlock breathed their scent in a bit, running his fingers over the myrtle, and gently touching the violets and roses. He looked back up at John, "John," the way he said his name this time was in wonder and awe. 

John smiled, scooting closer and patting his knee, "You'll need to do some research on Victorian flower meanings." He looked out the window, leaving Sherlock alone to his thoughts for a moment. When they arrived at their flat, it took Sherlock extra time to exit the car, as he was cradling the flowers to his chest to keep the water from spilling. After they were inside the flat, he put them on the table in the sitting room, near the sunlight. Sherlock stood by the window, looking out at the street. 

"Are you still angry at me, Sherlock? Do you not want me to come along on this case?" John sat down on the couch, turning his body so he could just view Sherlock's profile. 

Sherlock took a while to answer, "This just wasn't the way it was supposed to go, I was supposed to convince you it was temporary, and for a case, and I had speeches prepared for how I had to do it this way and only this way. You were going to do fake relationship for the case, but only under duress, this isn't going how I imagined it at all. You surprised me."

"Sherlock, people hardly ever do what you expect," He smiled, "Do you want to talk about the case? How we're doing to pull this off, or what we're going to do? Do you still want to go through it, with me?"

Sherlock moved away from the window and sat on the couch, but didn't sit right next to John, "I'd like to still go through with the case, with the ruse of being a married couple, as this is the best way to get the results we need, to investigate everyone we can on the ship. But the idea is more nerve wracking than I anticipated."

John moved closer to Sherlock, and put his hand on his knee, "Sherlock, I'm always your best friend. No matter what. I don't want to do anything that will upset you." Sherlock nodded, but didn't speak. John continued, "When are we scheduled to leave on this trip? Is there a lot we need to prepare for? I mean, did you still want to get married for this?"

"John," Sherlock's voice was shaking. An acquaintance might not be able to tell he was nervous, but John knew, "Mycroft can really marry us, in case something does happen on the ship, and we can annul it when we return, if you'd like. It would prevent what happened when you had the concussion, and when I was almost arrested for breaking into your hospital room. At least if something happens on this ship."

John tried to give Sherlock his most dazzling smile, "Whatever you want, whatever makes you more comfortable. I'm going to go upstairs and start sorting through clothes and begin packing. Let me know what the plan is, yea?" Sherlock nodded, almost imperceptibly. 

As John was upstairs packing, he heard Sherlock talking on the phone. He came upstairs in a bounding sprint, and without a word, Sherlock passed the phone to John. 

"John?" Mycroft was always business, "I just wanted to be sure you wanted this, that you weren't being pressured or locked in some dungeon until you agreed."

John kept his eyes on Sherlock, smiling as he spoke, "Oh, Mycroft. You know Sherlock really can't make me do something I don't want to do." John winked as he handed the phone back to Sherlock, "Your brother is an ass and needs to mind his own business." That earned him a lopsided smile from his detective, who punched the end call button and tucked it back into his pocket. 

"So, do we have a plan yet, Sherlock? As far as itinerary?

Sherlock nodded, "The captain can marry us on the ship and provide witnesses, and Mycroft can expedite the paperwork electronically. So, we have to keep his arse in our business at least for a little while."

John thought about his words carefully before he spoke, "Do you want anyone to be there? Your parents, Mrs. Hudson, your brother, Greg?"

Sherlock shook his head, "I mean it's…it's not really real, is it?"

John looked at Sherlock, who kept his eye contact. John took his hand, rolling so he could feel his pulse. Sherlock's heartbeat was a bit quick, but not out of control, "You're real, Sherlock, and I would like to do this however you would like. I told you, I wouldn't mind not annulling it," John smiled again, grabbing his packed suitcase and snapping it shut, "Are you packed, will we be leaving soon?"

Sherlock's ears were pink, and his neck and chest were flushed. He chewed his lips as he spoke, "Alone with you is fine with me."

John moved towards Sherlock, setting the suitcase on the floor, "That's fine with me. We can have something in London with all our friends, and just spend time alone after we're married. Oh, and work on the case in between, I suppose." John smiled, playfully using his shoulder to bump Sherlock. 

Sherlock stared at him a moment, then simply said, "John." 

John couldn't determine how Sherlock meant his name this time. It wasn't playful, or fearful, or angry. It was plain, simple, his name on Sherlock's lips. Sherlock didn't say anything else, but went downstairs to begin packing. John followed behind with his suitcase. 

As Sherlock packed, John puttered in the kitchen, cleaning and working off nervous energy. John jumped when he felt Sherlock's fingers over his left elbow. Sherlock pivoted him around, putting their left hands together, "Did you want rings, John?" He placed his long fingers over John's, comparing them. John could feel his fingers trembling. 

John faced Sherlock, "If this makes you uncomfortable, we don't have to. I don't want to risk anything with you." 

"I don't either," Sherlock said. He stared at Sherlock for a long time, looking for any sign of what he was thinking or feeling. John couldn't determine anything. Eventually, Sherlock broke the silence, "Let me work on the details of the case, and organize some things."

John nodded, patting his arm, "Well, I'm all packed, so tell me when you're ready."

\-----

The next few days were tense, charged, but not uncomfortable. They let their friends and family know of the wedding, none of whom were shocked. John and Sherlock promised there would be a reception with more notice, but they were welcome to the wedding on _Baetica_. They bickered a bit over what to wear, if there would be flowers. They went through life as normal, arguing and acting as Sherlock and John, but with their wedding ahead of them. A wedding, a marriage, that John had no intention of annulling, a wedding that John was unsure they would ever consummate. 

John had no idea what Sherlock thought of all this. He was in the dark, as he couldn't read his detective's thoughts as well as his detective could read his. The only indication that he was ok with the arrangement, or at least ok with John, is that Sherlock allowed John to absent-mindedly stroke his curls while they sat on the couch and read up on cruise brochures. 

About two days after Sherlock first discussed the case, John awoke when Sherlock called John's name, in the barking bright tone, indicating it was time to leave. They got ready, fairly quickly, mostly from anticipation and anxiety. John grabbed his suitcase walked down the stairs. Sherlock took the flowers with him downstairs, handing them to Mrs. Hudson. He explained that they would probably die while they were gone, and he didn't want to deal with the mess when he returned. 

As they climbed in the cab, John caught a new wallpaper on Sherlock's phone: the flowers John bought him. 

The cruise ship left from Southampton every Monday at 7:00am. They traveled to Southampton by train on Sunday. During the trip, John dozed for at least thirty minutes. The rest of the way they sat in companionable silence, Sherlock smiling once when he caught John looking at him in the afternoon light. John felt butterflies when he thought about sharing a room, and sharing a bed, with his detective. 

They checked into a small hotel very near the docks. They could see their ship from their room. _Baetica_. It glinted in the sunlight, the evening rays making the windows appear on fire. They didn't fully unpack, but laid out some clothes so they didn't wrinkle. 

"Come, John," Sherlock stated, opening the door and gesturing for John to come with him. Without question, John followed Sherlock up the dock and into the city. A few blocks from the seaside was a specialty jeweler that was keeping their shop open into the evening hours. 

"I called ahead," Sherlock explained. 

It was a musty shop full of antiques, books, and a cabinet in the front under the register full of loose gems, rings, necklaces, broaches and earrings. The owner looked up from his crossword puzzle when he heard the bell clang above the door. 

"Sherlock! I was worried you wouldn't make it. Let me go get the rings for you and your fiancee, John, is it?"

John could only nod. The owner brought out a tray with two matching rings, "They are titanium with charcoal inlay. Titanium is fairly indestructible, so it's popular among soldiers, funeral directors, firefighters, anyone in dangerous or messy lines of work." He gestured for each man to try theirs on. John's fit perfectly, and it was incredibly light.

"Do you like it, John?" Sherlock stood close to John, his tone questioning, hoping for approval. 

"Yes, do you like it? I do like that they match," John moved closer. He was marrying the man he loved, a man he'd never kissed. He stood on his tiptoes to kiss Sherlock on the cheek, feeling Sherlock's face warm under his lips. 

Sherlock tucked the rings into his jacket pocket. They fought over who was paying, until the jeweler finally made them agree to each pay half. "A gift of a ring from one to the other," he explained. 

On the walk back to their small hotel room, their arms swung at their sides. John felt his fingers rub against Sherlock's every third or fourth step, but Sherlock didn't move away. 

After they entered the room, they got ready for bed, not speaking. They were both nervous, they both knew each other well enough to know the other was nervous, but they didn't acknowledge it. 

When John crawled into bed, he laid on the right side, Sherlock on the left. John turned inward to look at Sherlock as he crawled into bed beside him. Sherlock looked at John from under dark eyelashes. Sherlock put his hands over John's, rubbing them, holding them up to his face to study them. He brought John's ring finger to his mouth and kissed it gently, reverently, breathing out "John," as he exhaled. John knew if he'd been standing he would have crumpled to the floor. 

"Sherlock?" 

Sherlock didn't do or say anything else, but turned on his side, with his back to John. When John heard his breathing slow, he scooted closer to him, gently running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, being careful not to touch his scalp. He was tempted to pull the detective into his arms, but he wasn't sure if it would be welcome or not. 

As he moved his hand away from Sherlock's hair, he brushed his fingertips against the back of Sherlock's neck. He looked up and down his betrothed's back. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. 

"Aren't you going to hold me?"

John popped his eyes open, "Sherlock?" he saw the brunette's head pop over his shoulder as he turned to look at John. John felt dizzy and unsure of what Sherlock wanted, but if Sherlock wanted to be held, John would oblige, "You want me to hold you?" 

"Yes. I saw you hold one of your girlfriends this way. She was on her side, and you were on your side holding her. I thought it would feel nice if you held me like that."

John bit his lip. He wondered if Sherlock had watched him sleeping with a woman in his bed, or if he had followed him to the woman's house after the date to observe them. Both possibilities seemed in line with what Sherlock was capable of. 

John heard Sherlock sigh, "John," exasperated. John was being a mere mortal, a human moving at a glacial pace, "You were having sex so enthusiastically you banged the door off kilter. I checked on you a little later, afraid maybe you'd had a stroke or concussion from that much activity."

"Jesus," John huffed, "Of course you did." 

John scooted across the bed, wrapping one arm underneath Sherlock, and one arm over his hip. He took his fingers and wrapped them around Sherlock's, pulling him tight. He felt himself growing hard, as his pelvis was pressed against Sherlock's hip and arse. John did his best to keep his breathing under control, but he could see his warm breath was leaving some moist condensation on Sherlock's collarbone. 

"How do you….how do you _sleep_ like this? There is so much going on. There is so much to feel. A lot of sensation."

John chuckled into the back of Sherlock's neck, "Usually, this happens after, uh, other activities that leave both parties quite tired, quite sleepy. It's nice."

Sherlock chuckled, then pulled John's arm tighter around himself. John willed himself to breathe more evenly, and thought about Mycroft to will his aching member back under control. Just as he was going to drift into sleep, with his detective in his arms, Sherlock cleared his throat. He squeezed John's hands again, stating, "I find myself, upset, for having yelled at you, earlier. As we discussed the annulment. I'm sorry, I have just had to put off this case for two weeks. I'd been trying to work on any alternative to asking you to marry me."

John sighed, and started to pull away, "Sherlock, I told you, if you didn't want to do this-"

Sherlock turned around to face him, "Don't be ridiculous, John. I was afraid of your rejection. And it would cause the wanting and longing for you to rekindle, when I'd kept it at bay for years. I didn't want to betray it and ruin our friendship. And then, to have you tell me you wouldn't mind staying married," Sherlock pulled John closer, "I didn't know how to react to that. I hadn't come up with a proper response to that."

John traced his jaw with his finger, his lips, "You wanted?"

Sherlock breathed, nodding, looking at John's face for a long while before answering, "John, I am quite out of my depth, as I said. It's difficult for me to verbalize."

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, "Are you unhappy that you had to marry me on the cruise to solve the case?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at John, "Of course not, John. I just…"

Sherlock took John's face in his hands and searched his eyes. John replied, "I know, I've been trying to tell you. I'm not very good at this either." John ran his fingers up and down Sherlock's ribcage. "Oh, John," Sherlock whispered, deep and breathy, wondrous and sleepy. John instantly loved _this_ way Sherlock said his name. When his lips were pink, his hair ruffled in dark curls around his head and spilled on the pillow. 

Sherlock was moving closer to John when Sherlock's phone began ringing and beeping. Sherlock responded by yelling, "Shut up!" which earned him a thump from an occupant in the room next door. John urged him to take the call as the number had called him three times in a row. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but answered the call and put it on speaker. 

"This is Julie, assistant to Captain Openshaw. I know it's late but I was calling the police and the Captain thought maybe you two were here already. We've gotten five threatening notes today. This is the most we've ever gotten. We think it's getting worse due to your upcoming wedding. Will you come on board and help with the investigation?"

John heard Sherlock flop backwards on the bed with a groan. John responded affirmatively for the both of them, and they entered the ship's honeymoon suite a day early. 

\----

The first hours aboard the ship were insane. Dusting fingerprints, interrogations, running from hull to stern and through the docks. Sherlock had theories only when they collapsed into bed at 3am. They were too exhausted to be nervous around each other this night. The only thing Sherlock did out of the ordinary was run his fingers through John's hair a few times before he fell asleep. Otherwise, they were bed mates only. 

At 7:30am, John woke to a cold bed. Right in his line of sight was a vase of roses, myrtle, and violets, much larger than the bouquet John had gotten Sherlock. Sherlock had scribbled a note on the ship's stationery "Please don't leave. I'm searching for something. Be back soon. Yours, SH"

Because they were male, and British, and stubborn, it had taken them years and the ruse of a case to just _begin_ to reveal their feelings for one another. But since they were John and Sherlock, they had both, on their own, decided to woo the other. 

John took a moment to review the room in the daylight. It was smaller than a hotel honeymoon suite, but it was lovely. A large tub, and shower, a small sitting room, and a king sized bed. 

When on a honeymoon, that was all that was really needed. 

John decided on a bath. He laughed as he crawled into the tub of warm water. The entire situation was ridiculous. He was getting married, and he was thrilled about it this time. He was hopeful Sherlock might agree to stay married after the case. And if not, John would keep his promise. He would wear the ring, and there would be no others and Sherlock would have to choose what he would do. 

He was drifting to sleep in the warm water of the tub. John heard Sherlock enter the room. He panicked, thinking he needed to get up out of the water quickly to cover up. John, after a moment, dismissed the idea. They'd both seen each other in various states of undress before. This was no different. 

"John?" He called out. This was his slightly panicked way of saying his name when he was worried, or tired. 

"In here, Sherlock," he answered, splashing the water around to clue him in that he was taking a bath. 

Sherlock opened the door slightly. His face turned pink, "Um, I'll talk to you when you're done. I just have two or three theories I want to run past you. And the Captain has invited us for brunch."

John smiled, and for a moment he considered standing up in the tub to scandalize Sherlock further. Instead, he just left it at a smile, waiting to exit the bath once he was alone. He dressed in a bathrobe and met Sherlock in the suite's small sitting room. Sherlock was looking down at his phone, flipping through it with his right thumb. John felt a wave of affection and love, and his feet were moving on his own accord. His goal was to finally kiss Sherlock, properly. As he moved forward to kneel at his feet, the ship moved forward, pitching John nearly into Sherlock's lap. He landed on the floor instead. 

Sherlock looked around his phone, cocking up an eyebrow. He dryly said, "The ship is in motion, John, she is leaving port."

John looked up at Sherlock and burst into laughter. Sherlock smiled back and started laughing, tears in his eyes. 

"Help me up, you berk," John growled. 

"No, John, I rather like you on the floor," his eyes were twinkling, and he quirked a smile at the side of his mouth. John loved the way he said his name when he was laughing, when he was truly happy. 

"Are we ok, Sherlock? I don't want to ruin us. That would kill me. Are we ok?" John moved forward, sitting at Sherlock's feet. He'd tucked his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. 

Sherlock tilted his head, "Why would you think we're not okay?" 

John put his chin on his knees, "Just nervous, I guess. I don't want to push you into anything."

Sherlock sighed, putting his phone away, "John, I very much doubt you could make me do anything I don't want to do," he leaned down to look into John's face, "What were you trying to do when you fell?"

John blushed, "Oh my god," he put his head down on his knees for a moment, the rested his cheek on his knees to make eye contact, "I was going to kiss you. We're getting married, we've bought the rings, and we haven't kissed. You were sitting there, and you just looked….gorgeous."

John waited. It was a daring move, to come out and say what he was thinking. He was feeling bold, electric, that if he didn't do something to help show Sherlock how he felt he would burst away from his bones. 

Sherlock held his hand out. In one sweeping motion he pulled John up and over, sitting him on his lap. John giggled, hiding his face in the crook between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. Sherlock's rumbling laugh resonated in John's chest, and Sherlock's arms circled around his doctor. 

John felt a wave of desire and hunger when Sherlock's fingers ran up the back of his neck into John's damp hair. John titled his head up, and nuzzled his mouth into the side of Sherlock's neck and jaw. Sherlock moaned, tilting his jaw up. John kissed upwards until he reached his mouth. Before they kissed, John searched Sherlock's face. He waited so long that Sherlock took the initiative to pull him forward and place their lips together. 

John knew he'd loved Sherlock for a long time. The kiss wasn't amazing or dizzying, simply because they were both too nervous. But what made John's heart stutter was the idea that this was a cross into new territory. He and Sherlock had matching rings, they were getting married, but this kiss was confirmation, in the sunlight of their honeymoon suite, that Sherlock felt as John did. Or, that was his hope. 

Sherlock stopped kissing him and pulled back, "You're thinking too hard, John, you're killing the mood."

John laughed, kissing Sherlock again. He felt his robe slip off his shoulder, and Sherlock's fingers rubbed over his bare skin. Moaning into Sherlock's mouth, he wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled himself closer. He opened his mouth wide, deepening the kiss. Sherlock was warm, and constantly moving. His arms were rubbing his back, or rolling over his ears, or dipping into his robe to touch bare skin. His legs were shuffling, hitching his knee up or widening his stance so more of John's legs could tuck up and fit on the chair. 

Just as John was beginning to trace Sherlock's lips with his tongue, Sherlock's phone buzzed. He pulled away from John only after giving him a few extra pecks on his lips. John laid his head on Sherlock's chest, and he hummed against the rhythm of Sherlock's rapid heartbeats. 

"Who is it?" John asked, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's neck, toying with his nape curls. Sherlock closed his eyes a moment, rolling his neck back into John's fingers, "You are distracting, husband-to-be." Sherlock looked at John, wide-eyed, worried he'd said something inappropriate. 

John looked up at Sherlock, hoping Sherlock could deduce the love and desire on his face, "I can say the same of you." 

Sherlock's phone buzzed again. He pulled it up so John could see the messages, "No hits on the fingerprint copies I emailed Molly. No data that matches the information in the threatening notes." He gave John one last squeeze, "Let's head to the dining room." 

John reluctantly got off of Sherlock's lap so they could dress. John chose jeans and a jumper. Sherlock dressed in jeans and a button up. As they dressed together, John did his best to be a gentleman and turn away as he dressed. However, he couldn't help watching Sherlock as he slipped jeans over his hips. 

John's mouth was moving faster than his brain, "You're wearing jeans?"

Sherlock turned around, which was a mistake. His fly was undone and his shirt unbuttoned. John stared at his chest and the trail of black hair that disappeared into his pants. 

"What? Are they too informal?"

"No, no it's not that. I've just never seen you wear jeans. They look nice."

Sherlock smiled, "I just thought it would convey I was on my marriage cruise and honeymoon. That I wasn't working."

John laughed, "You're always working."

Sherlock smiled, coming alongside John and lacing their fingers together, "Well, you always look nice, John." A light tone, loving, teasing his name up with an inflection at the end. John responded by giving him a quick kiss on the mouth. After they were dressed, Sherlock took his hand again and led him to the hallway, moving to the end of the deck towards the elevator. The ship was three levels, but all the levels were beautifully decorated. Light blue paint, bronze accents, recessed lighting, ornate carpeting and chandeliers in every large dining room. On the top level was where most of the 900 passengers convened when they weren't in their rooms or on the deck. This floor held a large dining room, a performance stage, and a smaller dining room for the captain and special guests. 

As they moved towards the captain's dining room John stopped him, "You think the Captain is behind this somehow? "

"Yes," Sherlock smiled, "You're learning my methods."

John laughed, "No, I just thought he was being targeted by some kind of hate group, but you haven't really been focusing on anything outside, just everyone on the boat, so I assumed he might be doing it himself."

"Why do you think he would be doing this himself? To what purpose?" Sherlock was walking very close to John, being careful to walk in pace with John so they could continue to hold hands. 

John stopped and pulled Sherlock close, to whisper in his ear, "Publicity?" 

Sherlock turned and whispered back, "You are brilliant, my dear," and gave John a small kiss on his cheek. 

John knew he loved most of the ways Sherlock said his name, but he also loved Sherlock calling him a term of endearment. He was rooted to the spot, guests moving around them, a chandelier sparkling above them, and all John saw was Sherlock's eyes that were crinkled in a smile. 

Sherlock watched John's face, using his finger to trace his cheekbone and jaw. He fixed a bit of John's hair that was sticking up, and John adjusted a couple of Sherlock's stray curls. 

As they entered the dining room, John heard upbeat piano and cello music. They weaved around white linen tables until they arrived at the Captain's table. Sherlock guided John to sit next to a silver haired man and a blonde woman, obviously dyed. When they sat down, Sherlock discreetly moved his chair closer to John so their thighs were touching. John smiled at him. When Sherlock smiled back, John had to fight the urge to jump back up and kiss him senseless. 

As they ate, Elias Openshaw began to talk. He discussed the pride he felt at officiating the first same sex wedding onboard the Baetica. He beamed at Sherlock and John as he lifted his flute of mimosa, "To Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. It is an honor to see you finally married, and on our ship, no less."

Around the table were cries of goodwill and congratulations. John heard glasses clinking, and looked at Sherlock quizzically. 

"Americans," Sherlock said, as if that would explain everything, "when they clink glasses at a wedding, or an event such as this, it's traditional that the betrothed kiss."

John wrapped his fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him down for a sweet but quick kiss. Sherlock tasted of strawberries and champagne. 

After the crowd died down and was satisfied with the display of affection, Sherlock was free to leisurely chit chat with John while observing the crew and passengers for any tells of out of character behavior. John's entire body was pleasantly warm, and he realized he'd drank three mimosas before he'd taken one bite of his crepes and fruit.

John stole a glance at Sherlock, and caught him looking back. John winked as he popped a blueberry into his mouth, and Sherlock's face and neck flushed a deep pink. After the meal, as they drank coffee and chatted about the itinerary, Sherlock put his arm around John and pulled his chair closer. 

They listened to the sound of the ship and the soft rocking motion as the engine roared against the waves. John leaned back into Sherlock's embrace, tilting his head so he was resting on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock leaned down to whisper into John's ear, "Are you alright? What do you think?"

John looked up into Sherlock's face. His eyes were sparkling and his smile met his eyes, "This is lovely. Are you alright? Any regrets?"

Sherlock smiled even brighter, dipping his head down a little lower, "Absolutely none. I'm so happy you agreed."

The Americans clinked their glasses even louder and whistled. Sherlock tilted down and caught John's lips between his teeth and nipped at him, eliciting more whistles and a low moan from John. Sherlock whispered in John's ear, "Let's go out on the deck."

John followed Sherlock, disregarding everyone else's stares and whispers. He wasn't sure if Sherlock wanted privacy, or he was chasing a lead on the case. Sherlock took his hand, looking over his shoulder and grinning back at John as they went out onto the deck. There was a line of deck chairs under the awning, and just off of the line of deck chairs was a small bar and a glass enclosed observatory. The weather was sunny and just a little chilly, so Sherlock led John to a deck chair to watch the ocean. 

Sherlock put the two seats close together so they could still hold hands. John looked over at Sherlock, "Do you have any leads on the case? Or any ideas on how to proceed with the rest of the investigation?"

Sherlock leaned into John, looking quizzically into his eyes, "The case?"

John inhaled quickly. He recalled the same look, the same inflection, when Sherlock was completely distracted from a case with John's first wedding. He'd imagined, in the months after Mary's death, that Sherlock had loved him then. That he'd loved him from the beginning as John had. Sherlock had sacrificed everything for John, watching him marry someone else and do his best to give John what he thought he wanted. 

"Yes, Sherlock, the case. The case of the threatening notes? Or, the case of the captain lying about the threatening notes? However you want to phrase it."

Sherlock turned pink, grinning, "I completely forgot about the case. I've been preoccuppied."

John turned his fingers around in Sherlock's palm, rubbing his fingers over his wrist, "Where were you this morning?"

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John, caging him in with his arms, "I was making last minute wedding preparations. The music, getting an idea on how long the vows had to be. I'm always keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, but I've just been thinking about marrying you," Sherlock cleared his throat, not making eye contact with John, "I'm sorry."

John kissed him back, enthusiasticaly, "Nothing to be sorry about." 

Sherlock turned his head to look at John. He was completely relaxed, "Do you know why I was especially intrigued to take a case on a ship?"

John turned, looking over his beloved's delighted face, "Why? It seems like the perfect locked door mystery. No one can get off or on. At least in between ports."

Sherlock chuckled, squeezing John's fingers, "Yes. That part is also brilliant," he brought John's hand up to his lips and kissed it gently, "I've always wanted to be a pirate. I figured when we find whoever is doing we can make them walk the plank."

John giggled. He recalled his discussion with Mycroft, years ago, in Speedy's. They'd been discussing Irene, the awful woman who'd ruined John's attempt to finally confess his love for Sherlock by showing up in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock had asked John what he knew of Sherlock's heart, and shared that Sherlock always wanted to be a pirate. John felt dizzy with all the stories of their lives coming together. They'd finally confessed that they wanted one another. They were together. They were getting married. 

John and Sherlock linked their fingers together, watching the sea and the waves rolling away from the boat. John knew he had to commit this day to memory, he wished so desperately he had a mind palace. If he had one, he knew exactly what he'd fill it with. The sunlight on the waves, the sound of a piano playing drifting through the deck, the feel of each other's heartbeat through their fingertips. The different ways Sherlock said his name. John didn't want this to end. He imagined living with Sherlock, being able to live with him for years and introducing him as his husband, and not just his flat mate. 

John, in a wave of bravery, in a wave of recklessness, leaned into him, "Have you thought more, about not annuling the marriage after the case?"

Sherlock looked confused and looked down, pulling his hand away from John's. 

"John, I don't understand why you want to do that. Why you want to do it that way," Sherlock looked at the floor, "Is everything you do just for convenience?" Sherlock looked up at him, then his watch.

John hated the look of hurt on Sherlock's face. He did his best to explain, to apologize, so Sherlock understood, "Sherlock, it's not convenience, it just makes sense. We're getting married anyway, and I'd like to stay married-"

Sherlock moved, leaning away from John, "So, it's just, staying, whatever makes-" Sherlock didn't finish his sentence. He jumped off of the reclining deck chair and moved toward the bow of the ship, near the observation deck, and turned the corner. He was walking briskly, with his hands in his pockets and his head down. 

John sat for a while, thinking back on the times during this case when Sherlock had left upset, or had been angry with him. He knew he'd done something wrong, but he couldn't figure out exactly what. Had he not made his feelings clear? Had he not asserted himself that he did love Sherlock, desperately, and had for a long time? Did Sherlock not love him the same way, and was frustrated with the situation? John was unable to come up with an answer, so he took a walk. He walked the entire ship, from the inlaid theatre, to the restaurants, to the bars, past the swimming pool. He walked for a couple of hours. He swore he saw nearly all the 900 passengers, some a couple of times, but he never encountered Sherlock. 

When he returned to the room, he found Sherlock. He was in his thinking pose, lying on the bed, his hands steepled under his chin. John sat on the end of the bed, and put his hand on Sherlock's bare foot. Sherlock moved it away. 

"Sherlock, what did I do?"

Sherlock sat up, stared at John for a moment, and didn't answer the question, but stated firmly, "This isn't going to work, John."

John felt cold dread settling in his bones. He ached, he loved this man, and he'd had a short taste of what it would be like to be with him romantically. It appeared it was over already. He prayed Sherlock was talking about the case, but he knew that was wishful thinking. 

"Sherlock, please-"

Sherlock put his hand up. John recalled when they were in Magnussen's building, and Sherlock shushed John as he proposed to Janine through a security camera. Was this all fake, and now he felt guilt? Had he just been playing a role the entire time, and there was no longer any need for the ruse?

"I no longer can continue this façade." Final. There would be no discussion, then, "I find no way out of the wedding, which will take place in three days. All the papers are filed, but Mycroft will annul it immediately. I obtained another room on another floor, letting the captain believe I want to be away from my," he stumbled on the next words, "fiancee before the wedding night, as I am an old fashioned romantic. Friday at 1pm is the wedding. I arranged for a suit in your size to be delivered to the room." At this, Sherlock got up from the bed and moved to leave. 

After Sherlock left, John wandered around the room for a few minutes. He realized all Sherlock's clothes and toiletries were gone. He'd packed and moved to another room, taking everything with him. 

John noticed that the flowers were no longer on the table. He went to sit in one of the chairs, and his heart hurt. He stared at the chair that Sherlock had sat in, his heart aching with the memory of the kisses they'd shared earlier. 

It was from this angle John noticed the flowers were binned. 

\-----

John spent the evening in the bar, drinking whiskey. The captain's assistant came up to him, and sat too close to him. He did his best to move his bar stool away from her before he realized the stool was bolted to the floor. 

"Are you ok?" Julie asked, "I know Sherlock is staying in another room to keep the wedding night romantic, but he looked miserable when I last saw him."

John perked up at the mention of Sherlock's name, "Where did you see him?"

"He was meeting with the Captain about the issues with the letters and any new leads."

John stood up, a little wobbly, "Are they still there?"

Julie nodded, but bit her lip, "But Sherlock specifically said that he didn't want you to see him. I guess for tradition's sake, that old wive's tale, not seeing each other before the wedding-"

John glared, "We're on a boat for god's sake, of course we're going to eventually run into one another."

Julie's eyes opened wide as John slammed the empty tumbler down on the bar and stuck some bills under it, leaving without a word. 

John marched towards where he thought the the Captain's quarters were, but things were much fuzzier this evening. He had attempted to drown his sorrows in half of a dozen tumblers of whiskey, which hadn't been the smartest decision on an empty stomach while on a rocking boat.

He turned the corner, saw the signs pointing to the Captain's quarters. Before he made it all the way to the door, he saw some red splatter on the white wall. 

Painted on the white wall outside the Captain's office was the message "If you marry those fags, someone will die." For some reason, this reminded John of a Harry Potter book, but he couldn't recall why. 

John walked past the Captain's door, searching the hallway for any additional information. Any clues. He didn't see anything. No other paint or anything on any other surfaces. 

He banged on the Captain's door, then, losing his balance, opened the door by falling into it. He saw Sherlock standing over the Captain's desk, leaning into him, his body appearred to be melded to Mr. Openshaw. John felt sick, and just said, "I was coming to find Sherlock, but there is a message painted outside your office. I don't know what information you can glean from the message."

The Captain and Sherlock jumped away from each other, and John moved out of the way as the two of them stood in front of the message, whispering and studying the paint as Sherlock looked over each part with his magnifier. As John watched the two of them, he'd never felt more lonely in his life. 

He slipped back to his room without a word. 

\-----

John woke up with dry mouth and a pounding headache. He looked over at the door, and his suit was hanging up on it, gently swinging. Sherlock, or someone, had just dropped it off. There was a note attached to it. 

_John, Please be there at 12:30 tomorrow for rehearsal. Traditional vows. -SH_

So, Sherlock had left the suit. He had been asleep, but he wondered why Sherlock had left it without saying anything. He considered that he'd possibly ruined his friendship with Sherlock, but he wasn't even sure what he did. 

He saw that the bin of flowers had been emptied. 

He decided to go to the pool. 

Swimming normally calmed John, but today he was doing it so he could escape the endless loop in his head. _"Sherlock doesn't love me, he doesn't like me, I've ruined everything, what did I do."_ = With each swim across the pool he thought, he analyzed, he tried to come up with a solution to what he had done, what he had said. Sherlock had admitted he'd wanted, that he feared John's rejection. What had changed?

Why was Sherlock going through with all this? Were they even investigating anything?

As he came out of the pool, Julie waved at him. He was self conscious about his scar, but he figured he wouldn't see her again after this trip, "What can I help you with?"

"Well, I don't know how to say this," Julie said, whispering to John, "I trust you, but if you tell anyone what I'm about to tell you I will tell them you're lying." John quirked an eyebrow. Interesting, "The letters have stopped since the Captain and Sherlock have been spending a lot of time together. I don't know if it's because the Captain has been preoccuppied with talking with him, or because of some other reason, but it's odd. I just wanted you to be aware."

John wasn't processing the ramifications to the case. All he heard was the _Captain and Sherlock_ portion of the sentence. 

"They're spending a lot of time together?" John asked. He was grateful that he was dripping wet from the pool. He was afraid he might cry. 

"Every moment he can be spared from the navigation room, I've seen them together.," Julie explained, quietly, with a look of pity. 

His heart ached. It was the night before his wedding. He wanted to punch something, fight, yell. He decided he would work on his wedding vows instead. He thanked Julie and returned to his room, tired and heartbroken. He pulled off the piece of paper on the suit that Sherlock had written on. 

_Sherlock, I love you. Our relationship has not been traditional at all. Tides have been pulling us apart from the beginning. However, I have loved you from the beginning. I love your mind, and how wise you are. I love being with you, just sitting in our flat, when it's quiet and there is nothing going on. I love your voice, your lips, your eyes, your hair. I love you, will love you, have always loved you. You have my heart. Yours always, John._

John would say these vows to Sherlock, whether or not there would be time made for personal vows, or whether or not Sherlock would listen. He had to tell him. Whatever else happen, would happen. 

\-----

John slept in fits and starts, and spent the morning fussing over his hair and practicing his vows. At 11:30, he dressed in his deep blue suit. He had to admit that the hue brought out the color in his eyes, and he wondered if Sherlock had picked it out. 

It was 12pm, he was dressed and ready to go, then he realized he wasn't sure where the wedding was to be held. When he went into the hallway, he saw Julie. She was beaming at him, "I've come to collect you. Your bridegroom is waiting for you. He looks just as smashing as you do!"

John smiled, but he knew it would look fake and insincere. Luckily, Julie mistook it for nerves, "It will be fine. It's simple, just as you both wanted. He loves you."

John wanted to run. He couldn't wait for the first stop of the cruise so he could get off and go home, then find a new place to live. This was going to be a miserable experience. He held on to the vows he wrote Sherlock, and did his best to take deep breaths and will himself to take one step at a time. 

Julie led John to the glass enclosed observatory. The sun was high in the sky, and the light and ocean were reflecting off all the windows. Flowers in tall vases, that were bolted to the floor, lined the entire room. There was a natural aisle where groups of passengers had gathered to watch the ceremony. John walked up, leaving Julie in her seat. 

He didn't see Sherlock at first, until he stepped out from around the corner. The passengers gasped, and John did with them. Sherlock looked striking in a gray suit that showed off his eyes and his porcelin complexion. He was gorgeous. His lips were pursed in his determined expression.

_into battle_ John thought. 

John and Sherlock took their place in front of the Captain, who held a large book in front of him. Something didn't sit right with John. He wasn't sure if it was the book, or the fact that the Captain was sweating, but something was wrong. 

As the Captain began to open his mouth, John was already moving. The Captain pulled a gun out of the back of his waistband, hiding it with the large book. John shoved Sherlock out of the way in instinct. He heard the shot, knowing it missed Sherlock, concerned that it had whizzed past them and hit a passenger. He didn't hear anything, sound and time had stopped. Adrenaline took over as John covered Sherlock, and he watched the Captain turn the gun, place it in his mouth, and blow his own brains out.

John was confused. He saw blood on the floor, but he wasn't hurt. Sherlock wasn't shot. However, Sherlock had a wild look on his face, and he was pulling off his jacket and laying John back on his legs. He saw another doctor - a passenger - maybe a nurse? Run up to him, pressing on his shoulder. Why was everyone pushing on his shoulder? He'd been shot a long time ago there - 

John realized, the shock and pain hitting him all at once, that he'd been shot in his bad shoulder. The shoulder didn't hurt because the nerve endings had been damage previously. Sherlock was saying something, as were the doctors, nurses, passengers, but he couldn't make out the sound. 

This time, he was going to die.

He almost laughed, if it wasn't so serious. He remembered the same feeling when he was dying in Afghanistan. No deep thoughts, just a wave of random thoughts hitting his brain at breakneck speed. He heard a violin, saw his mother's face, retraced the pattern of the wallpaper in 221b in his mind's eye, smelled the leaves in the park outside their flat. 

 

John remembered Sherlock's post on his blog after his first marriage. 

_Anyway. I decided that I'd share with you a video of the wedding. It's a video of the photos of the wedding. Sadly there are no photos of the attempted murder. If there are any attempted murders at John's next wedding, I promise to take photos._  
He didn't have enough energy to ask Sherlock if he was taking photos of this murder. Would've been in poor taste, anyway. 

 

Instead, John held out his scrap of wedding vows and gave it to Sherlock. He was shaking so badly he just held out his hand and threw the sweaty piece of paper in his direction. Sherlock was crying now, sobbing, but John still couldn't hear a word he was saying. His eyesight started to go, in black waves and red fuzzy rings. He was on a ship, in the ocean. They may call a helicopter, but it would be too late. 

He tried to scream, but he didn't know if it would come out loud, or as a squeak, or a whisper, but he said it, over and over, hoping Sherlock would hear him. 

_What would you say, if you knew you were dying? What would you say, as your last words?_  
_I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock._

 

\-----

John saw the hounds at Baskerville. He stood in front of Sherlock and shot them. Over and over and over. But they bit him. He had rabies. It burned and ached and he begged to be allowed to die. But Sherlock was safe. He was on the couch, eating takeout, while the hounds ate his flesh. But Sherlock was safe.

\-----

**  
_I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock._ **

\-----

Magnussen, this time, was pulled to the ground by John before he could flick Sherlock in the face. John punched him, over and over and over. He was held down, yelled at, crying, but Sherlock was safe. He hurt. He wanted to die. But Sherlock was safe. 

\-----

John resurfaced as if he were coming up from underwater. For a moment, he thought they had just buried him at sea, not knowing he was still alive. 

He wished he were dead. 

He remembered everything from those days in hospital after Afghanistan. The pain, the ache, the lonliness. This would be far worse. He didn't know if Sherlock would talk to him, see him, he wanted to die. But Sherlock was alive, wasn't he?

John wanted to open his eyes, but he couldn't. He heard the beeps of hospital machines, and it was comforting. It reminded him of work, of familiarity, of an environment in which he was used to navigating. He listened as hard as he could. Who was in the hall? He heard yelling. He heard feet pounding against the floor. He heard a nurse yelling, or a doctor? 

"John, John," There was warm breath on his neck. Who was that? He smelled like Sherlock. Sherlock and his ridiculous poncy tea tree oil shampoo. Coffee breath. There was a scuffle. 

"That's my husband! I demand to see my husband! John, open your eyes. I'm here. John!"

John didn't understand. He didn't have a husband. Sherlock didn't want to be his husband. John had died before he'd gotten to tell Sherlock how much he loved him. He was dead, or dying, alone. 

He was alone. 

He didn't have a husband. He never would have a husband. 

He was aching.

He was feverous. 

He was alone. 

\-----

John felt a burning in his throat as a metallic, plastic taste rolled over his tongue. He kept his eyes on the nurse. He had been intubated, and the tube was coming out. He was alone, with nurses, doctors, no one he knew. 

He wasn't dead. 

But he was alone. 

Tears pricked at his eyes as he breathed normally, through his lungs. The nurse counted his breaths, took his O2 saturation. Normal. 

He couldn't talk yet, so the nurse handed him a notepad. She explained, "Your husband was hysterical. We had to ban him from the wing. He's not left, he's been pacing around the first floor. We have two security guards on him at all times. I am going to let him come up, but he cannot fling himself on you or carry on as I'm afraid he might, or I'll escort him out again. With a tranquilizer if I have to. Do you understand?"

John wrote, _He says he's my husband? We hadn't made it that far._

The nurse smiled, "They pushed it through with witnesses and the vows you wrote. We couldn't bear," At this she teared up, "to keep him apart from you, and knowing what was going on. We did have to separate him when he became hysterical, but he had more rights as a spouse. So they pushed it through, in case," the nurse shook her head, "you're an army doctor, you're stubborn, you've exceeded all expectations."

John wrote a note, _Tell Sherlock he can come up if he behaves himself._ He felt incredibly sleepy, probably the pain medication, but he wanted to see Sherlock. He needed to ground himself in what was real, and what was dreams. He'd been in the middle so long he wasn't sure. 

He didn't remember the nurses leaving, or Sherlock entering the room. He must have dozed. He woke when he felt a hand upon his cheek. John turned to the touch, then felt fingers grasp his left hand. He opened his eyes. 

Sherlock. 

He was staring at John, almost through him. John knew he would look frazzled, or upset, but John didn't expect this. Sherlock looked worse than he did after being awake for 4 days. Perhaps he had been. 

Sherlock was chewing on his thumb. John noticed Sherlock was wearing his wedding ring. John reached his hand out to touch it, and couldn't quite reach. Sherlock, still silent, reached into his shirt and pulled out the other ring, dangling on a chain around his neck. He snapped the chain, pulling the ring free. He raised his eyebrow, and John nodded. Sherlock slipped the ring over John's ring finger. 

John tried to reach Sherlock's hair to pet him, to hold him, but he was tired, and his eyes drooped. Sherlock moved the chair as close as the could to the bed, and lowered the side rail. He laid his head on the bed, using John's arm as a pillow. John drifted to sleep with Sherlock's hair tickling his chest. 

\-----

John awoke sometime in the night, unsure of how many days he'd been in the hospital. He wasn't sure if this was a new day, or a continuation of what he thought of as the day before. Sherlock was lying on the bed and his arm. John heard him crying, weeping, and slowly moved his right arm out from under Sherlock. His left fingers and arm felt heavy, so he couldn't reach over and stroke Sherlock's hair like he wanted to. 

John tried to talk, to say something to Sherlock, but his throat was sore, and his tongue was heavy. It must still be the same day, or the day after, that they had removed the breathing tube. He put his right fingers under Sherlock's chin, lifting his head to look at him. He then gestured to his throat. Sherlock's eyes were read, and his face was covered in tears. 

"Oh, John," his voice was cracking, broken, aching. John wasn't unsure that he wasn't grateful to hear the way Sherlock said his voice, as it conveyed that he cared. John moved his hand again to his throat, gesturing to a cup he noticed on a tray table somewhere behind Sherlock. 

Sherlock nodded his head, "Ok, Ok, let me get you some-" Sherlock's hand was shaking and he nearly collapsed when he stood up to walk over to it. John tried to reach for him but he couldn't move his arm, and he couldn't say anything to comfort him. John hit the nurse call button on the side of his rail. A nurse came quickly, running to John's bed at first, then to Sherlock when he noticed him stumbling. He came and wrapped his arm under Sherlock, leading him back to the bed. John wished he could speak, to ask for food, to take care of Sherlock as he had always had done, but he couldn't. 

Instead, John pointed to Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock was partially laying on John, and his eyes were closed. The nurse left, and came back quickly with what John assumed were sugar tablets and some orange juice. John rubbed his back as he drank the juice. 

"I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry," He slurred. John shook his head, and continued rubbing Sherlock's back. The nurse explained to John, "He's been here for two weeks. It's been hard to get him to eat. We could tell that you're the husband that takes care of him."

Sherlock gave John a small smile, and the nurse looked at John, "Have you eaten? You also need a drink."

The nurse left, and Sherlock pulled himself closer to John. His eyes were glassy, and he touched noses with John, "I'm so happy you're….oh, John." Sherlock began crying again. John rubbed Sherlock's hands and he could tell by the feeling of his skin that he was dehydrated. 

"John, John," the way Sherlock said his name was scared and joyful all at once, "I read your vows, and I was so scared. They didn't know if you would come out of the medical coma, and all I could do is read your words and think about….oh, John…." John was able to hush Sherlock while he rubbed his beautiful cheekbones in an attempt to calm him. If Sherlock was dehydrated, it was best that he stopped crying. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and hugged him close to him, "I'm sorry, I was just so hurt. I didn't know….I didn't think you-"

John looked at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow, doing his best to pull him in with his right hand only. "John, I just thought you were marrying me because you just wanted me with you in the hospital, or just to be around you. I didn't think you really loved me."

John shook his head. He smiled. They were in the hospital, together, and Sherlock didn't have to fight to be in there. He'd been banished to the first floor for making a scene, but he had an absolute right to be wherever John was. 

The nurse returned with fish and chips and water, not from the canteen, but from an actual shop. The nurse smiled, "I know you missed your wedding reception. We wanted to get you something better than food from hospital." 

John smiled as Sherlock helped him balance the food on his lap. Sherlock attempted to feed John, but John shook his head, breaking off pieces of fish and feeding it to Sherlock bit by bit. When Sherlock licked his fingers, he felt a pool of warmth in his stomach. 

"Are you feeding me up, John? Is it fish and chips instead of wedding cake?" Sherlock's eyes were watering again, and John urged him to drink more water. After Sherlock had eaten some, he picked up pieces and fed them to John. He couldn't stop smiling at Sherlock, even though he couldn't talk, and his left arm couldn't move. He and Sherlock were alone, on a hospital bed, feeding each other fish and chips. They were married and wearing each other's wedding rings. Sherlock loved him. 

It was one of the happiest days of his life. 

\-----

John knew months of physical therapy and rehab awaited him. He could only stand doing that much work if he were at home, with his _husband_ . Over the next two weeks, he learned that a helicopter had life flighted him to the nearest port in Norway, then back to London when he was more stable. Sherlock wasn't able to ride with him, and Mycroft had come to pick Sherlock up. 

The entire time John was in route, Sherlock was prepared by all the doctors that John would most likely not make it. In the first hospital in Norway, Sherlock had been escorted out by the police because he was absolutely inconsolable while John was in surgery. Mycroft had gotten him to calm down with some valium and cups of coffee, and a copy of their marriage license that he could show to the hospital staff. 

When John was stable again, after surgery, he had been flown to London to be brought out of his coma. It wasn't communicated, but Sherlock knew that it was in case John didn't come out of the coma. If John died, Sherlock would at least be closer to his friends and family. Luckily, as one of the nurses explained, John was an army doctor, strong and stubborn, and had exceeded everyone's expectations. 

Now, one month after their wedding, Sherlock was leading John up their stairs. On the way home from hospital, in Mycroft's car, he was snuggled up against Sherlock and was more talkative than he had been since before the wedding. They chatted about nothing in particular, the weather, the state their flat might be in due to Sherlock's untended experiments, the need for John to stay in Sherlock's room so he wouldn't have to go up another flight of stairs. 

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off John. Wherever he moved, Sherlock was watching, always ready to help or check on him. Now, in the back of the car, Sherlock was more relaxed. John was getting better, John was coming home. 

"Sherlock," John pulled Sherlock tightly to him. John still couldn't really use his left hand, it was no longer in a sling. He did the best he could to show his love for Sherlock with his one set of fingers and his mouth. 

They had kissed some in hospital, but most of their time was spent talking with the doctors and nurses about John's care and rehabilitation. Sherlock took this opportunity to kiss him, soundly, nibbling on his lower lip. 

"Sherlock, I'm trying to ask you a question."

"Questions later," Sherlock growled into John's mouth, "I want to kiss you now."

John laughed, allowing himself to be pulled onto Sherlock's lap. He felt warm, affectionate, but still slightly dizzy from the pain medicine. His eyes would drift in and out of focus at inconvenient times. When Sherlock was kissing him, or helping him move from the bed to the bathroom, or whispering stories in his ear. 

"Sherlock, really, when we get home can we talk?" 

Sherlock pulled away and looked extremely uncomfortable, "Did I do something wrong?"

John smiled, wrapping his right arm tighter around Sherlock's neck, resting their foreheads against one another. "No, you've not done a thing wrong. We just haven't talked about the case at all. I don't know what happened after the wedding. I don't know why Elias shot you, or how we ended up getting married for sure! I've got bits and pieces in my mind, but everything is fuzzy."

As they pulled up to the kerb of 221B, Mrs. Hudson nearly sprinted to meet them. Sherlock wrangled John and their small suitcases of clothes and toiletries until John could walk far enough so Mrs. Hudson could help steady him. John was beaming. 

"It's so good to be home."

John underestimated the pain of stairs. 

Every step was agony. After Sherlock put the suitcases in the livingroom, he came back down the stairs to help John and Mrs. Hudson back up. John drew in wheezing breaths every time he went up a stair. Sherlock concentrated on John, holding his hands while Mrs. Hudson balanced him from the side. His left arm hung in the sling, wincing every time it swung with the rhythm of making another stride up. 

"Oh, John, what can I do?" Sherlock asked, taking another step backwards. 

John smiled, then winced, "You're doing it, Sherlock. Having you ahead of me, I want to get in the flat," he took another weezing breath, "A carrot on a stick, so to speak."

Sherlock looked at John with open, tender adoration. Step by agonizing step, the three slowly limped into the flat, then Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson slowly lowered John onto Sherlock's bed. In a fit of triumph, Sherlock declared, "I know you're tired, John. I'll do everything. You don't have to leave my bed for weeks if you don't want to do so."

Mrs. Hudson looked between her two boys, then burst into laughter. Some of the tension left her shoulders, "Perhaps I should invest in ear plugs, then, or a good noise machine."

John smiled as they helped lower him on the bed, propping his back up with pillows. He slept for 12 hours. 

\-----

"John. Jo-hn," Sherlock was saying John's name in a playful, happy tone, singing it. John woke, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing John's hip. John had been home for seven days, and they hadn't talked in detail about the cruise. Their time had been filled with medication, helping John, and physical therapy. Sherlock had been sleeping on the couch so he didn't disturb or joustle John in the middle of the night. John's favorite part of the day was when Sherlock would come in the bedroom in the morning and kiss him awake. 

"Sherlock, can we talk? I feel as if we're so busy we haven't just been alone together, to talk."

Sherlock nodded, "Today is a break from physical therapy. I'm free for the day."

John remembered what Sherlock had been working on the night before, "But, the case, you were working on with Lestrade over the phone. Don't you need to go see some things in person?"

"I'm married to you," Sherlock said simply, "You're my priority."

John cursed his broken body. If he could, he would ravish Sherlock right now. Instead, he described what he would do to his husband, if he had the strength, "Sherlock, if I could, I would kiss you senseless. I would run my hands up and down your back, your ribs, leave bite and kiss marks on your neck where you couldn't hide them. If I had the use of both my hands, I would use one to run my hands up the back of your neck, into your hair, pushing you close as I kiss you with my lips, my tongue. I wouldn't stop kissing you, until you are writhing, and begging me to strip you down to nothing and have my way with you…."

Sherlock was red faced as he shifted his hips, looking intently at John, "Is this your idea of talking, then?"

John laughed, "No, well, I like seeing you get flustered when I talk to you. But I want to know what happened. Why did Elias try to shoot you?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands folded in his lap, "I am not sure. He was the son of a military man, and he possibly was harming me to get to you. The letters were most certainly fake, most certainly sent from someone inside the ship. I think he was sending them to throw anyone off of the trail of him, and to get us on the boat with the promise of a mystery. But I am still working through that."

John squeezed Sherlock's hands, "Please, help me up. I'd like to sit up and watch you work, or play your violin. I've been cooped up in this bed for far too long."

Sherlock put his arm under John's, and helped him up, opening drawers and laying some things out in the bathroom. John was steadier on his feet now that his pain was under control and he no longer needed as much pain medication. The physical therapist had warned Sherlock, pulling him aside, that 'his arm will never be quite the same. He may not be able to work.' Sherlock had cried at this, desperately attempting to pull himself together before he helped John down off of the workout table. John had sacrificed everything for him, over and over and over. John had known, even though Sherlock had put on his mask and cleaned his face, and had told him, "I know. It's okay, I know." 

Now, John used his arm to steady himself, the fingers working somewhat to help him dress, he'd had to learn to crack eggs with just his right hand, brushing his teeth was achieved by mashing the tube with his left fist and twirling the toothbrush with his right hand. Everything took longer, but his reward was Sherlock by his side, the reminder the ring on his finger. 

He shuffled to his chair, the left side of his shirt sloppily tucked into his pants. Sherlock came over and tucked it in properly with his fingers, placing his hands on John's hips when he was finished. John looked up at him, almost swooning with want. His husband was wearing an outfit he'd seen him wear hundreds of times, a white button down, black pants, black jacket. His pale, marble colored neck and alabaster skin exposed, John rose on his tiptoes to kiss along Sherlock's neck and jaw, for if he didn’t kiss him or touch him _right this moment that would be what would finally kill him._

"John, John, we can't push you too far. You're still healing, you only finally just got dressed…." Sherlock's voice was swallowed up in a gasp of pleasure as he put his had on John's good shoulder to steady himself as he rocked to the side. 

"Sherlock, sod it, I exert myself more in physical therapy, for god's sake, touch me, kiss me, do something. I've been married to you for over a month and I've missed most of it-" John, in a burst of energy, grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's jacket and hauled him closer, kissing him fervently, nibbling his lips, "Sherlock, touch me, something."

Sherlock pulled away from the kiss, John whimpered and pitched forward. John was so used to being held and led by Sherlock, he thought nothing of Sherlock pulling him to the couch, standing him in front of it until the back of his calves were supported by it. They kissed more, growing sloppy in their desire and want. John felt Sherlock's erection pressed into his thigh, and Sherlock's nimble fingers worked on John's button and zip. His jeans were around his knees and Sherlock gingerly sat him on the couch, causing him to yelp with the cool feel of the fabric on his bare arse. Sherlock grinned at him wickedly, pulling his pants to his ankles, though not all the way off, getting to his knees and crawling up between John's legs. 

"Oh, Sherlock," John grabbed his beautiful curls with his right hand the moment Sherlock's head was close enough. Sherlock nuzzled into the crease of John's hip, alternating blowing air across the downy hair and leaving delicate, wet kisses along the skin. John was squirming, thrusting slightly in a hint to get Sherlock to move faster, but he responded by putting his hands on the tops of John's thighs and pushing down. John moaned, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock finally pulled back slightly to look at John's cock. It was weeping with precome, thick and uncut, curving to John's right. Sherlock pulled back the foreskin and engulfted the entire head, causing John to cry out, "Sweet lord, Sherlock, have mercy," at this, Sherlock looked up at John, and their eyes met, and John knew that he was done for. Sherlock hummed around him, licking and kissing and sucking, and John felt his orgasm build quickly and release. Sherlock swallowed him, rubbing John's thighs as he did so, then rubbing up and down his stomach, the crease in his hips. 

John looked down at Sherlock, who was palming his erection through his slacks, "Come here, you madman, come here," John shuffled over so Sherlock was sitting beside him on the couch. He unbuttoned Sherlock quickly, taking him out, admiring him. He was uncut as well, longer than John, but less wide. John traced the precome around Sherock's cock, then pumped him, awkwardly, with his right hand. Sherlock put his hand around John's, and they pumped together, just a few times, until Sherlock pulled close to John, spilling all over his exposed thighs. They leaned into one another, foreheads resting against each other, breathing quickly into each other's mouth. After a few moments, Sherlock pecked a few lazy kisses to John's mouth. 

"I need to help you shower again, John," Sherlock grinned, "We're filthy!"

John loved the way Sherlock said his name after kissing him, after he took him in his mouth. His voice was slightly raspy, but happy. No one else could tell the change in the timbre of Sherlock's voice, but John could.

"Come, husband," Sherlock giggled at the pun, stripped his shirt and jacket as he pulled John off of the sticky couch. As they made their way to the shower, they stripped each other, pulling clothes off as they went. John's arm was a little more limber since he'd been up for a little while, and he was able to mostly get his shirt off by himself. Sherlock smiled, "See, we got some physical therapy in!" John snorted. 

Sherlock stepped in the shower first, testing the water, then leading John in. His shoulder was still covered in bruises,the arm hung at a strange angle. It would never be the same, not after two injuries. As he took John's left hand, and pulled him into the shower with him, he started to weep. He was shaking, weeping, and John, strong John, the one who had been shot, the one he was supposed to be taking care of, was holding him. 

"Sherlock, Sherlock, where did this come from, love?" 

The term of endearment only made it worse. He was crying and sobbing, now, great wracking sobs that shook his shoulders. John did his best to wrap his good arm around him, kissing his neck under the spray. 

"John, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.." 

"Stop that. You stop that, right now!" His Captain Watson voice. It made Sherlock stand up taller, and give John his full attention, "I love you. I love you more than anything or anyone in this world. If you'd been shot, I would've died. I took that bullet for you because I am selfish. I couldn't bear the thought of watching you bleed again, or thinking that I might lose you. I couldn’t do that. So I took the bullet instead. Keeping you alive, having you alive, was all I wanted. You're alive, and I'm alive, and we're married. So stop. There is nothing to be guilty about. As long as you're here, and you want me, and you love me, it will be ok."

Sherlock pulled John closer, slipping against him in the spray, "I was so cruel to you. I just didn't want to be hurt, if you didn't love me-"

"Sherlock," John whispered, taking the shower gel and lathering up Sherlock's body as well as he could, "We're ok. I love you. I don't want you worrying yourself sick about this anymore." John squeezed him, smiling, rubbing his hands over his arse. Sherlock helped wash himself, and did give John a small smile as John gestured for him to bend down so he could help was Sherlock's hair, "You are never allowed to cut your hair, Sherlock, it is absolutely gorgeous." Sherlock giggled, a sound John had only heard a few times. 

"I like it when your hair is a little longer, too, John," He ran his fingers through John's hair as he put some shampoo in his hair, kissing his cheek and neck as he massaged down his shoulders and his back, "Is this alright, John? If I massage you?" Sherlock took the bottle of shower gel and put some in his hands. John nodded, and Sherlock moved his fingers along John's shoulders, tenderly but firmly rubbing John's injured shoulder. As he inhaled his breath sharply, Sherlock kissed him, easing off the pressure, then slowly deepening it. 

As they rinsed the soap off of themselves, John tenderly kissed Sherlock's mouth, "I love you."

Sherlock smiled, "I heard you."

John raised his eyebrows, "Yes, I'm right here. I'd hope so."

Sherlock smiles, taking the towel and helping John dry off before he dries off himself, "No, right after our wedding, after you were shot," his eyes get teary as he takes John's face in his hands, "You were whispering over and over that you loved me, as you were on the ground, as we were waiting on the helicopter. I….I told you my vows, listening to you, telling me you loved me."

"Show me." John demanded, grabbing their towels, throwing them on the floor. John did his best to grab Sherlock's waist and pull him close so they were touching, chest to pelvis, and reached up to cup his face with his palm. John loved this man. Had loved him for years. They'd waited enough. John grabbed his hand, pulling him into their bedroom. Sherlock protested, but John shushed him with a passionate kiss as he pulled him into the room and laid him on the bed. 

"I love you, and we're going to make love, properly," John said firmly, "I can't exert myself too much, but I want to be connected to you."

"Oh, John." Sherlock breathed, his mouth open, his name said with wonder, adoration. This was defintely the most favorite way John had heard Sherlock say his name. It was as if he was the most important part of Sherlock's world. As if he were Sherlock's whole world. 

They tangled together, rolling on the bed, kissing. Sherlock had to help John when his arm got caught under Sherlock's body, which threw John into a fit of giggles. John took a long look at his husband's body. He was lithe and gorgeous, beautiful hips and an amazing neck, and he wanted him but he was unsure how he could have him. 

"John, lay down, we can make love while you're laying down," John laid on his back, arching, amazed that he was already hard and ready again. On top of him was the expanse of marble and beauty that made his chest ache. Sherlock moved forward and rubbed his erection and pelvis against John, grabbing the lube from the drawer. 

John was lying on the bed, Sherlock was leaning back, on his knees, on either side of John's hips. He reached his fingers back and opened himself slightly, before leaning forward, perching himself on his heels, lowering his body onto John's erection. John gasped, arching, Sherlock whispering into his ear, "I told you I loved you, that I was so sorry," John pulled his head back, just slightly, so he could look into his eyes, "When you were shot, I told you, I would love you forever, till death to us part, and I'd loved you forever. I've always loved you, John."

"Oh, Sherlock," John gasped, he'd only had sex with men a couple of times, and none of them were Sherlock. Nothing compared to the feeling of the love of his life around him, his heart pounding against his own chest. He grabbed at him with his good arm, pulling him as close as he could. He felt his orgasm building, and tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

Sherlock was moaning, doing his best to rock back and forth without putting too much of his weight on John. However, John encouraged him to move by running his fingers on his ribs, bucking himself up into Sherlock. Sherlock's erection was caught between himself and John, and he moaned as he felt Sherlock shudder and cry out. He continued to moan, rocking, crying John's name. 

"John," Sherlock moaned, "I love you, husband. I love you. Be mine, always?"

Sherlock bent down, putting his forehead against John's. They bucked into each other, moaning, John felt hot with the glory of his beautiful, alabaster husband writhing on top of him, feeling his heartbeat and his body engulfing him. 

"John, John, John." Sherlock cried out as he came, his body fluttering around John. Arching his pelvis, John came, pulsing, holding his body up with his right hand taught against the headboard. 

_That._ That way Sherlock said his name. Was most definitely his favorite. Breathy and passionate and in wonder. That was his favorite.

John lowered himself down, Sherlock coming down with him. They rolled over, Sherlock helping John with his left arm, until they were wrapped around one another, on their sides, facing each other. John kissed Sherlock and growled, "You're not sleeping on the couch tonight," and pulled his fingers through his hair. 

Their breathing slowed, and they continued to sleepily kiss each other, awed and thrilled that they were together, in the same bed. The silence was broken when Sherlock heard his phone going off. He attempted to throw it across the room, but stopped when he saw the message pop up.

It was a photo, another wall of the _Baetica_ painted red with a message. 

_If you fags don't return, we will start throwing passengers off the ship._

John and Sherlock looked at one another, then Sherlock began talking, "I'll go, John, you're not well enough-"

John sat up, pulling Sherlock close to him, "Not well enough? I am your husband. We always work better together. I am not getting left behind-"

The ding of another message coming in. 

It was another photo. 

It was of Julie, Elias Openshaw's assistant. Her eyes were open, her hair swirled around her, dressed in her ship uniform. She appeared to be floating, and John was unsure how this photo could have been taken. How could she float? Then it clicked. It was underwater. Julie had been photographed underwater. It was clear to John, now, there were no air bubbles. Her hue was blueish gray. She was deceased, and the photographer took this photo of her slowly sinking into the ocean. 

One text message came in.

_Tick tock, newlyweds. You never did get a sex holiday._

 

\---To be continued


End file.
